Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand (started in 2006)
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe
Paradise Lost by John Milton
On the Road by Jack Kerouac
The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
The Aeneid by Virgil
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J. K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Deathly Gallows by J. K. Rowling
Getting Started by Robert Eaker, et al (nonfiction)
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
Where's My Jetpack? by Daniel H. Wilson (nonfiction)
Ishmael by Daniel Quinn (nonfiction; re-read)
The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman
The World Without Us by Alan Weisman (nonfiction)
Dracula by Bram Stoker
Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Next: Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
Monday, December 31, 2007
Jane Eyre
Awesome novel! Another winner! I am going to revise my "Top Ten" list to include this one, for sure. Apart from a couple plot devices (e.g., Jane's timely inheritance; lawyer Briggs' arrival at Jane's first wedding) and some unbelievable coincidences (e.g., Rochester's brother-in-law just happens to have the same lawyer as Jane's uncle; Jane happened across the paths of her cousins, the only living kin she has in the world), the novel was surprising and compelling. I enjoyed the way Jane analyzed the other characters and the way she attempted to manipulate them, esp. Rochester and Rivers. The death (by T.B.) of her friend Helen at Lowood was beautiful and moving in its brevity and its spare prose (You listening, Harriet Beecher Stowe, with your over-long treatment of little Eva's consumption?). I liked the division of the novel into thirds: early years, life at Thornfield, escape to Moorland. Each section encompassed its own conflict, yet it was nicely integrated to create a coherent whole. Bronte's rhetoric and pacing were brilliant--I was never bored, as I was with her sister's novel, Wuthering Heights. Jane was a strong character, but what I found most interesting about her was the fact that her strength lay in her steadfastness in following the leads of others, primarily men. She thrived on powerful, strong-minded men with wills of iron who liked to order her about. She enjoyed following these men, and even called Mr. Rochester "sir" and referred to him as "master", neither of which Rochester ever corrected her about, even after she agreed to marry him. I also like the way Bronte pulled the reader along the story, pacing herself and employing numerous, effective details to enliven the story.
Bronte was forward-thinking for her time as well. Jane, born of low parentage, rose above her situation by marrying the wealthy Mr. Rochester (never mind her inheritance). She often mused that her pupils (the farmers' daughters) were as bright, as "teachable," and as well-mannered as the children of the very wealthy. Throughout the novel, Bronte tries to blur the distinction between classes. Her "low" characters are as well-drawn as her upper class characters, and most of them are actually better people. For a woman writing in the early nineteenth century, Bronte seems to have been trying to rock the status quo.
Memorable scenes include Helen's death, Mr. Rochester's first proposal to Jane, the revelation of Rochester's first marriage, St. John's attempt to convince Jane to marry him and accompany him to India, and Jane's final reunion with Rochester at the end. I read a lot of books this year, and this was one of the best.
Bronte was forward-thinking for her time as well. Jane, born of low parentage, rose above her situation by marrying the wealthy Mr. Rochester (never mind her inheritance). She often mused that her pupils (the farmers' daughters) were as bright, as "teachable," and as well-mannered as the children of the very wealthy. Throughout the novel, Bronte tries to blur the distinction between classes. Her "low" characters are as well-drawn as her upper class characters, and most of them are actually better people. For a woman writing in the early nineteenth century, Bronte seems to have been trying to rock the status quo.
Memorable scenes include Helen's death, Mr. Rochester's first proposal to Jane, the revelation of Rochester's first marriage, St. John's attempt to convince Jane to marry him and accompany him to India, and Jane's final reunion with Rochester at the end. I read a lot of books this year, and this was one of the best.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Catch-22
Terrific novel! I really enjoyed the comedy at the beginning, was thrown off by the seriousness of the second half, but loved the ending. The looping narrative was a great idea. The change of tone bothered me at first--I kept waiting for the comedy to return--but then I realized that, after all, this is a war novel and it should be disturbing. The characters were fascinating and original, the comedy was laugh-out-loud funny, the tragedy was moving, and the narrative was varied but always readable. This might actually replace one of the novels on my Top Ten list. I have to think longer on it, but it is certainly up there.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Dracula
Took me a long time to finish this classic of literature. I'm glad I read it, but I doubt I will go back to it. I liked a few of the characters, though for such a long novel (about 400 pages), there weren't many and they were poorly developed, like Lord Arthur Godalming and Quincey Morris and even Jonathan Harker. The two women--Lucy Westenra and Mina Murray-Harker--were interesting and unique, as was the memorable Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, easily the coolest character of the bunch. The lunatic Renfield was more interesting than his doctor (Seward). Told in an epistolary, multi-media style, the novel seemed fragmented and disjointed in its early stages, but it started to make sense later on, and I can see why he did it that way. Stoker paced himself throughout, taking an awfully long time to develop his ideas, and while it seemed to move too slowly early on, the ending was tense. Hard to keep up with the reading early because it was so slow, but the middle was good, once Lucy died. The woman just kept hanging on, disappointingly. Anyway, Dracula himself was uninteresting and actually kind of weak, though his "capture" of Jonathan in the beginning was scary. The final third of the book turned out to be more of a battle of wits than a physical fight, which I liked much more. In almost every physical confrontation, Dracula fled. Kind of a weakling for a creature of ultimate evil. I was actually more afraid of the three Women of Darkness from his castle than I was of him.
The World Without Us
Hey, who wants to be depressed? Raise your hand, and I'll give you this book. Upsetting and discouraging. Like Ishmael with science to back it. The upshot: People suck and we're ruining the earth. Surprised? You would be by the detail and specificity of the research. The author has identified all the wonderful and diverse ways we are destroying our planet. Turns out, we've screwed it up so badly that some of our unique creations--like nuclear waste, plastic, and enriched uranium--will actually outlast the life of our planet. Also, we're adding a million people to the planet every four days. Better save those TV dinners!
The Golden Compass
Good book! I very much enjoyed it. It was touted (on the cover) as another LOTR, and while I don't see it as that significant a text, it is still one of the better fantasy novels I have read in recent years. Original and interesting with clever and creative elements (alternate universe, interesting quest, compelling protagonist), it has some interesting philosophical digressions and a good narrative. Easy read. Fighting bears are way cool! I'll hit the other books in the series in a bit (there are three--big surprise).
Monday, October 08, 2007
Where's My Jetpack?
Very funny -- yet scientific -- look at the future that never quite materialized. Not as technical or as thorough as I was hoping for, but still very readable and entertaining: a fast 187 pages. Wilson discusses everything from personal jetpacks to ray guns to robots to space elevators. Best line (discussing cryogenic freezing): "Here you are palming a silly book with your meaty human paws [when] you could be a thousand years in the future, standing in a thin atmosphere and cradling a mutant human baby with your horrific titanium claws." Same author who wrote How to Survive a Robot Uprising.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Remains of the Day
I loved this book! It's intellectually stimulating, relaxing, and interesting. The characters had unique voices (Ishiguro conveyed Stevens's voice with spot-on consistency throughout the novel), and they were well-drawn. The book was enjoyable, though the plot was not exactly exciting. It was a leisurely read, encouraging interaction and interpretation, given its indeterminacies, while not requiring the mental efforts to read the complicated prose of, say, Jane Austen. I looked forward to reading the book as one would look forward to sitting in front of a crackling fire. Good book to read with a cup of tea or coffee on a cold winter morning.
The main character, the butler Mr Stevens, was fascinating in his rigidity and self-denial. I liked the fact that he was an unreliable narrator and pretty much knew it. The way he told the memories of his life were realistic and honest, yet his extraordinary self-denial prevented him from really understanding the emotions he was relating. His relationship with Miss Kenton was marvelous: she obviously loved him and tried many times to get past his outer shell, but to little avail. Stevens's love for her was obvious in the numerous memories he related about her and the fact that he read and re-read her letter to him so many times throughout the book, which only spans a week or so, and in his obvious disappointment in finding that she was staying with her husband. Most poignant moments: The tears Mr Stevens sheds as he serves drinks to guests only moments after the death of his father; Mr Stevens waiting outside Miss Kenton's door, certain that she is crying on the other side of it, yet unable to allow himself to go to her because of his duty to his Nazi-sympathizing pawn of an employer; Mr Stevens, crying again, as he speaks with the other butler at the end of the novel. Ultimately, Mr Stevens allows the love of his life to leave and marry someone else because she simply can't wait for him to come around. She knows she would always be second to his professional obligations. By the way, I love the way her emotions play out, crossing the boundary from her world of passion to Mr Stevens's world of rigid professionalism.
The book is about duty and dignity, about living one's life in the best way possible. Mr Stevens's realization at the end is poignant. He knows in the back of his mind that although he fulfilled his professional goal of being a "great" butler, his desire cost him dearly in the personal sphere. And even the attainment of his ambition was tainted by the fact that he worked for an employer who was not as "noble" as he thought.
The main character, the butler Mr Stevens, was fascinating in his rigidity and self-denial. I liked the fact that he was an unreliable narrator and pretty much knew it. The way he told the memories of his life were realistic and honest, yet his extraordinary self-denial prevented him from really understanding the emotions he was relating. His relationship with Miss Kenton was marvelous: she obviously loved him and tried many times to get past his outer shell, but to little avail. Stevens's love for her was obvious in the numerous memories he related about her and the fact that he read and re-read her letter to him so many times throughout the book, which only spans a week or so, and in his obvious disappointment in finding that she was staying with her husband. Most poignant moments: The tears Mr Stevens sheds as he serves drinks to guests only moments after the death of his father; Mr Stevens waiting outside Miss Kenton's door, certain that she is crying on the other side of it, yet unable to allow himself to go to her because of his duty to his Nazi-sympathizing pawn of an employer; Mr Stevens, crying again, as he speaks with the other butler at the end of the novel. Ultimately, Mr Stevens allows the love of his life to leave and marry someone else because she simply can't wait for him to come around. She knows she would always be second to his professional obligations. By the way, I love the way her emotions play out, crossing the boundary from her world of passion to Mr Stevens's world of rigid professionalism.
The book is about duty and dignity, about living one's life in the best way possible. Mr Stevens's realization at the end is poignant. He knows in the back of his mind that although he fulfilled his professional goal of being a "great" butler, his desire cost him dearly in the personal sphere. And even the attainment of his ambition was tainted by the fact that he worked for an employer who was not as "noble" as he thought.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
The Road
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Very Hemingway-esque in style, which may be one of the reasons the boy calls his father "Papa" throughout the novel. I enjoyed the story, as simple as it was. Very exciting in places, and very realistic throughout. The themes of God and the final image of the boy as an angel were profound and moving. The father defined himself and the boy as the "good guys", but it seemed to me that the primary elements that separated the father as Good Guy from the Bad Guys were the fact that the father killed only in self-defense and that he and the boy didn't eat other humans, an element the boy confirms at the end of the novel.
Throughout the novel, the father seemed distant from the boy, as if he were trying to understand his son. He has a few moments of connection but he also admits to a disconnect at times. The primary difference I saw was that the father cared most for himself and the boy, while the boy cared most for the whole human race, attempting to save nearly everyone they met on the road. No wonder he was angelic.
The final irony of the title was that the "veteran" tells the boy that the safest action was to get off the road, while his father was always traveling on it. I liked the ending of the novel, speaking of which. The father's death was inevitable, and the boy being saved by a family was as happy an ending as a post-apocalyptic novel can have without being maudlin.
The unnamed character is not uncommon in literature, but the authors usually have different reasons for their choices. In McCarthy's case, I think The Road contained no names (except for Ely, who lied about his anyway) because what do names matter in a world that has been nearly consumed? They don't define a person. Only the characters' actions mattered, and the love they shared. I'll probably read McCarthy's Blood Meridian at some point, though I have already begun Dracula and received The Kite Runner today. So many books, so little time.
Very Hemingway-esque in style, which may be one of the reasons the boy calls his father "Papa" throughout the novel. I enjoyed the story, as simple as it was. Very exciting in places, and very realistic throughout. The themes of God and the final image of the boy as an angel were profound and moving. The father defined himself and the boy as the "good guys", but it seemed to me that the primary elements that separated the father as Good Guy from the Bad Guys were the fact that the father killed only in self-defense and that he and the boy didn't eat other humans, an element the boy confirms at the end of the novel.
Throughout the novel, the father seemed distant from the boy, as if he were trying to understand his son. He has a few moments of connection but he also admits to a disconnect at times. The primary difference I saw was that the father cared most for himself and the boy, while the boy cared most for the whole human race, attempting to save nearly everyone they met on the road. No wonder he was angelic.
The final irony of the title was that the "veteran" tells the boy that the safest action was to get off the road, while his father was always traveling on it. I liked the ending of the novel, speaking of which. The father's death was inevitable, and the boy being saved by a family was as happy an ending as a post-apocalyptic novel can have without being maudlin.
The unnamed character is not uncommon in literature, but the authors usually have different reasons for their choices. In McCarthy's case, I think The Road contained no names (except for Ely, who lied about his anyway) because what do names matter in a world that has been nearly consumed? They don't define a person. Only the characters' actions mattered, and the love they shared. I'll probably read McCarthy's Blood Meridian at some point, though I have already begun Dracula and received The Kite Runner today. So many books, so little time.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Harry Potter, Books 6 and 7
The Half-Blood Prince
Par for the course, with the exception that this book, unlike its predecessors, seemed much more of a "series novel" than a stand-alone, inasmuch as the ending did not satisfy the reader with sufficient closure. It clearly led toward a sequel, instead of being self-contained as are the others. Rowling's forte is obviously plot, as her characters are fairly interesting caricatures and her themes are only superficially developed. She, much like Stephen King, is a page-turner. She does not ask much of the reader except for patience and endurance. The novel is predictably over-written and slow at times, but Rowling's ability to tell the story using multiple perspectives is improving. More on her overall writing ability in the next section.
The Deathly Hallows
This novel eventually provided sufficient closure for the series, and the final, climactic scene delivered a barely-believable, complicated resolution. The denouement was quite fast for the final installment of a heptology, and Rowling must be commended for it. Rowling's writing ability continues to sparkle like a bowling ball. She attempts to be literary at times as she tries to incorporate symbols and play around with character complexities, but since her symbolism is heavy-handed and her characters more similar to cartoons than humans, the novel falls short. The plot starts fast with an interesting chase scene, but almost immediately slows to a crawl during the middle third. For a novel as long as Hallows (759 pages), this means the reader slogs along for about 250 relatively boring pages.
For me, the creation of a believable fantasy world--a textured, multi-dimensional setting--is critical. However, the more detailed Rowling tries to be, the more difficult the job she has in closing the loopholes and filling in the gaps. Rowling falls far short on this. The resolution of the series is based on a carefully worked-out magical system, and her justification for the plot is painstakingly clarified for the audience. She has gone to great lengths to outline her "wizarding" world and to establish the "rules of the game". However, when she gets stuck, she resorts to the literary equivalent of the simple excuse, "Well, it's just magic, that's all!" which, if overused, pushes the reader out of the story by requiring an excessive suspension of disbelief. She definitively separates the "wizarding" world from that of the "muggles," by explaining any cross-contamination (the wizards erase the memories of the muggles whenever anything unusual happens). She injects humorous comments about the difficulty some wizards have dressing as muggles, although she simultaneously explains that all the Hogwarts students must change from their muggle clothing to wizard/witch robes on the train to the school. Wizards are shown driving and walking, talking, or otherwise intermingling freely with muggles, yet she jokes about the fact that the wizards cannot dress like proper muggles and do not know their ways. One major character is infatuated with all things muggle, specifically, outlandish muggle contraptions such as cars and motorcycles, going to ridiculous lengths to 1) establish his ignorance of them and 2) learn about them, when clearly a muggle library can only be a broomstick's ride away.
Am I being too harsh? Nitpicking too much? Perhaps. However, the effectiveness of a fantasy novel is based on the principle of suspension of disbelief, from which all else should proceed normally, once the rules have been established. If an author continually calls the reader's attention to a "rule", then the author risks losing the reader who sees the holes in the logic, thus effectively destroying the carefully constructed (and fragile!) relationship between reader and text. Fantasy, science fiction, and horror are all particularly susceptible to this risk. It's like Edith Wharton says in The Age of Innocence: "Good liars give lots of details; the best liars don't give any." The more elaborate the lie, the less likely a reader will buy it. Bottom line: The most important job of the fantasy author is to create the fantasy milieu and ensure that the reader remains in that world. The moment the reader discerns a flaw or contradiction in the fantasy world, the author risks failure.
Rowling's system of magic is based on simplistic stereotypes (wands, pseudo-Latin incantations, colorful rays) which often bend or break the laws of physics. Contrast this with Tolkien whose fantasy world is incredibly textured, highly believable, and remarkably detailed, and whose system of magic is limited in the extreme (only a handful of wizards exist). Or David Eddings whose magical system ("the Will and the Word") is not only detailed and well-explained, but highly believable and original. Or Lev Grossman's physics-based system of magic which can only be used by innately talented wizards with either incredible intellects or superbly-developed intuitive understandings of magic: the genius and the artist.
In addition to an original and interesting system of magic, fantasy novels all but require a "Good vs. Evil" conflict basis. This dichotomy presupposes an Everyman in the role of the "Good Guy". Harry Potter fills this role nicely, even if his character is inconsistent between--and sometimes within--novels. Voldemort is the Evil entity. Nice, neat, clean: a Boethian interpretation of evil as an intrinsic force. No playing around with ambiguous nature, no cleverly complex or sympathetic antagonists, no exploration of human nature. The closest Rowling comes to creating a complex antagonist is Professor Severus Snape, whose over-the-top personality is straight out of the Adam West/William Shatner school of acting. This oversimplified presentation of human nature is typical of escapist fiction and is the main reason these novels can never be considered anything more than idle and harmless diversions.
You may be asking why, if I seem to have such harsh feelings toward the Harry Potter books, have I read all seven novels. Good question. Part of it has to do with the closure element (I started the series and determined that I would finish them, no matter what). Another part has to do with the genre (fantasy is my favorite type of literature). Also, I want to have read them because many of my students have read them. Finally, as I mentioned above, Rowling is a good plotter. Her novels are escapist fantasies with some clever twists, and they are very easy to read (Hallows--all 759 pages of it--took me two days to read). As an aside, I must admit that I really wanted to like the Potter books when I began the series, but I am inherently mistrustful of anything that is too popular (i.e., if so many people like the books, then something must be wrong with them).
As a final note, I will say that I have not forgotten that I am not the target audience. These books were written for young readers who are much less discerning than I and who have much lower expectations. I should give her a break, right? Maybe I should. However, I can't read a fantasy novel without comparing it to Tolkien. The Potter books are written for an audience similar to that of Tolkien's The Hobbit (and it's influence on Rowling is unmistakable), and I don't think there is a serious fantasy reader in the world who would say that The Hobbit is inferior to Potter. And Tolkien's brainchild also succeeds as literature, proving that great books can be written for young audiences and that fantasy can be seen as serious literature.
Par for the course, with the exception that this book, unlike its predecessors, seemed much more of a "series novel" than a stand-alone, inasmuch as the ending did not satisfy the reader with sufficient closure. It clearly led toward a sequel, instead of being self-contained as are the others. Rowling's forte is obviously plot, as her characters are fairly interesting caricatures and her themes are only superficially developed. She, much like Stephen King, is a page-turner. She does not ask much of the reader except for patience and endurance. The novel is predictably over-written and slow at times, but Rowling's ability to tell the story using multiple perspectives is improving. More on her overall writing ability in the next section.
The Deathly Hallows
This novel eventually provided sufficient closure for the series, and the final, climactic scene delivered a barely-believable, complicated resolution. The denouement was quite fast for the final installment of a heptology, and Rowling must be commended for it. Rowling's writing ability continues to sparkle like a bowling ball. She attempts to be literary at times as she tries to incorporate symbols and play around with character complexities, but since her symbolism is heavy-handed and her characters more similar to cartoons than humans, the novel falls short. The plot starts fast with an interesting chase scene, but almost immediately slows to a crawl during the middle third. For a novel as long as Hallows (759 pages), this means the reader slogs along for about 250 relatively boring pages.
For me, the creation of a believable fantasy world--a textured, multi-dimensional setting--is critical. However, the more detailed Rowling tries to be, the more difficult the job she has in closing the loopholes and filling in the gaps. Rowling falls far short on this. The resolution of the series is based on a carefully worked-out magical system, and her justification for the plot is painstakingly clarified for the audience. She has gone to great lengths to outline her "wizarding" world and to establish the "rules of the game". However, when she gets stuck, she resorts to the literary equivalent of the simple excuse, "Well, it's just magic, that's all!" which, if overused, pushes the reader out of the story by requiring an excessive suspension of disbelief. She definitively separates the "wizarding" world from that of the "muggles," by explaining any cross-contamination (the wizards erase the memories of the muggles whenever anything unusual happens). She injects humorous comments about the difficulty some wizards have dressing as muggles, although she simultaneously explains that all the Hogwarts students must change from their muggle clothing to wizard/witch robes on the train to the school. Wizards are shown driving and walking, talking, or otherwise intermingling freely with muggles, yet she jokes about the fact that the wizards cannot dress like proper muggles and do not know their ways. One major character is infatuated with all things muggle, specifically, outlandish muggle contraptions such as cars and motorcycles, going to ridiculous lengths to 1) establish his ignorance of them and 2) learn about them, when clearly a muggle library can only be a broomstick's ride away.
Am I being too harsh? Nitpicking too much? Perhaps. However, the effectiveness of a fantasy novel is based on the principle of suspension of disbelief, from which all else should proceed normally, once the rules have been established. If an author continually calls the reader's attention to a "rule", then the author risks losing the reader who sees the holes in the logic, thus effectively destroying the carefully constructed (and fragile!) relationship between reader and text. Fantasy, science fiction, and horror are all particularly susceptible to this risk. It's like Edith Wharton says in The Age of Innocence: "Good liars give lots of details; the best liars don't give any." The more elaborate the lie, the less likely a reader will buy it. Bottom line: The most important job of the fantasy author is to create the fantasy milieu and ensure that the reader remains in that world. The moment the reader discerns a flaw or contradiction in the fantasy world, the author risks failure.
Rowling's system of magic is based on simplistic stereotypes (wands, pseudo-Latin incantations, colorful rays) which often bend or break the laws of physics. Contrast this with Tolkien whose fantasy world is incredibly textured, highly believable, and remarkably detailed, and whose system of magic is limited in the extreme (only a handful of wizards exist). Or David Eddings whose magical system ("the Will and the Word") is not only detailed and well-explained, but highly believable and original. Or Lev Grossman's physics-based system of magic which can only be used by innately talented wizards with either incredible intellects or superbly-developed intuitive understandings of magic: the genius and the artist.
In addition to an original and interesting system of magic, fantasy novels all but require a "Good vs. Evil" conflict basis. This dichotomy presupposes an Everyman in the role of the "Good Guy". Harry Potter fills this role nicely, even if his character is inconsistent between--and sometimes within--novels. Voldemort is the Evil entity. Nice, neat, clean: a Boethian interpretation of evil as an intrinsic force. No playing around with ambiguous nature, no cleverly complex or sympathetic antagonists, no exploration of human nature. The closest Rowling comes to creating a complex antagonist is Professor Severus Snape, whose over-the-top personality is straight out of the Adam West/William Shatner school of acting. This oversimplified presentation of human nature is typical of escapist fiction and is the main reason these novels can never be considered anything more than idle and harmless diversions.
You may be asking why, if I seem to have such harsh feelings toward the Harry Potter books, have I read all seven novels. Good question. Part of it has to do with the closure element (I started the series and determined that I would finish them, no matter what). Another part has to do with the genre (fantasy is my favorite type of literature). Also, I want to have read them because many of my students have read them. Finally, as I mentioned above, Rowling is a good plotter. Her novels are escapist fantasies with some clever twists, and they are very easy to read (Hallows--all 759 pages of it--took me two days to read). As an aside, I must admit that I really wanted to like the Potter books when I began the series, but I am inherently mistrustful of anything that is too popular (i.e., if so many people like the books, then something must be wrong with them).
As a final note, I will say that I have not forgotten that I am not the target audience. These books were written for young readers who are much less discerning than I and who have much lower expectations. I should give her a break, right? Maybe I should. However, I can't read a fantasy novel without comparing it to Tolkien. The Potter books are written for an audience similar to that of Tolkien's The Hobbit (and it's influence on Rowling is unmistakable), and I don't think there is a serious fantasy reader in the world who would say that The Hobbit is inferior to Potter. And Tolkien's brainchild also succeeds as literature, proving that great books can be written for young audiences and that fantasy can be seen as serious literature.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Some Commentary
I haven't written too much lately about the books I've been reading. Too busy reading and teaching to write. Here are some delayed observations about the books:
Atlas Shrugged
I liked this book, but I didn't love it. I enjoyed The Fountainhead much more, and I think it was the better of the two. Atlas was too long, much longer than it needed to be, in my opinion. The scope--intellectually and panoramically--was impressive, and some of the characters were memorable. Dagny and James Taggart, Howard and Lillian Roark, and Francisco d'Anconia were among the most well-drawn and interesting. Rand has a great ear for character voices, and Lillian's ambiguous speeches incorporated subtext brilliantly. On the minus side, the novel asks too much of the reader, and there comes a point about halfway through where suspension of disbelief becomes nearly impossible and the reader is pushed out of the story. Also, the novel was written as a pragmatic illustration of Rand's philosophy of life. However, to set the novel in a fictitious, almost science fiction setting that begs believability, undermines her goal in my mind: How are we to espouse a belief system that its own creator seems to admit requires a contrived setting in which to work effectively? Perhaps she felt she needed to present an extreme case to convince her audience. Perhaps she didn't trust her readers to comprehend the subtleties of her philosophy. I don't really know. All I know is, I do not feel she made as compelling a case as she did in The Fountainhead.
Plus, it was just too long. Did I already mention that?
Paradise Lost
Awesome! Just awesome! Milton's vision of the Fall presented in a classically rhetorical structure within the epic poetry form is moving, exciting, compelling, scary--you name it. It would make a great movie. Great moments: The battle between God's army (led by archangel Michael) and Satan's troops, with Michael simply whaling on Satan. Satan's complexity at seeing the pristine beauty of Eden and the purity of the First Humans. Satan and his demons being turned into snakes after his "victory" over Eve. Adam's sorrow over Eve's weakness, his determination to share her fate no matter what, and his acceptance of his subsequent expulsion from Eden. Lyrical, timeless, inspired, imagistic. A bit preachy, though. Oh, yes. Quite a BIT preachy. But to his credit, Milton does not shy away from trying to understand and present to the reader Satan's grievances. In fact, Satan almost appears a sympathetic character. He's also given more air time than Christ, Michael, and God combined. Advice: Try reading it out loud. Preferably in a crowded subway station.
On the Road
Not worth it. Repetitive, boring, and annoying. Probably, I just read this book at the wrong time in my life. Reminds me of Into the Wild, another book about a self-centered immature jerk. The characters, especially Dean Moriarty (a.k.a. Neal Cassady) were major jerks: selfish, egotistical, uncaring, and infantile in their immaturity. The Tao of Pooh was so much better. A book with Pooh is better than a book worth poo.
The Master and Margarita
Molly Cobb recommended this to me, and I enjoyed it, for the most part. Humorous, intelligent, philosophical, and well-written with great descriptions and characters. The interlaced narrative which was switched between the novel's present and the distant past (i.e., the death of Christ) was compelling, and the stylistic changes the author made to help differentiate those temporal shifts cleverly reflected the subject matter: the story of Christ was written in spare, almost stiff prose, while the present-day story was whimsical and fast-paced. The first half of the book was great, but then the narrative seemed to fade, as if the author couldn't maintain his energy level. (Note: I later found out the Bulgakov died before he had a chance to revise the second half of the work.) Oddly, the title characters were the least interesting ones. Satan, once again, was complex and definitely sympathetic. Weirdly surreal in places, especially Satan's Ball. A good novel, overall.
The Age of Innocence
Subtle and complex. The society Wharton presents is every bit as complicated as any Jane Austen, and much more treacherous. The main character is compelling and believable, and the plot is linear and easy to follow. The dialogue and actions of the characters are less readily accessible, however. The love story conflict is great, and it reminds me in many ways of my second novel: forbidden love, conventions of society, strictures on behavior, etc.. In some ways, I'm mad that Wharton wrote the novel first (and that she did such a good job), but in other ways, I am gratified that I would have an idea similar to that of such an accomplished author. I like the way the author incorporated so much subtext into the dialogue. She explained much of it, but there was still a lot of room for interpretation and interaction on the part of the reader. The novel moved slowly but purposefully. The ending was a disappointment: Anti-climactic and pointless in some ways. I get the whole part about trying to hold the idea of the perfection of the love Archer felt for Olenska in their youths as opposed to tainting it through an attempt to re-kindle it in their waning years, but come on! Here's your chance at real happiness, not just a moderately satisfactory complacency. I guess I have his kid's perspective: Why come all this way and wait all this time just to turn and walk away when your goal is within reach? Sort of belittles his love for her into a mere pining. Probably not a novel I'd come back to anytime soon, but it's a future re-read.
Pride and Prejudice
I liked it more than I liked Emma. The plot was complicated, and the characters were compelling and varied. The father, Mr. Bennet, was my favorite character. He separated himself from his family as a method of self-preservation: With five daughters and a biddy for a wife, he could do nothing else and remain sane. His attitude was great, and his sense of humor was engaging. He poked fun at his wife and acted in many ways as her foil, bringing a welcome sense of pragmatism to the overly-formal society. He had little patience for his wife's flightiness, and he was perfectly willing to let his daughters make their mistakes and learn from them. Mrs. Bennet was a fun character whom we could not take seriously. Her role in the novel was that of catalyst, trying to marry off her daughters as quickly as she could while simultaneously trying to ensure her family's financial future in the inevitable event of her husband's death, the fact of which she continually reminded her husband. Lydia, one of the youngest daughters, was incredibly selfish and obnoxious. It was one thing for her to party all the time with her younger sister and all the officers, and quite another to run off and get married to that poser Wickham. She caused her family all sorts of grief throughout the novel. I'm surprised they didn't cut her off completely. I liked Elizabeth, the main character, much more than I liked Emma from the other novel. She was mature, bright, down-to-earth, and perceptive. She was sensitive without sentimentality. I can see why she was her father's favorite. (Wait, do I have to say 'favourite'?) Darcy was too stand-offish at first, but he was ultimately a good man. Collins was hilarious in his pomposity, especially when he enumerated the practical reasons why Elizabeth should marry him. His obsequious behavior toward his benefactor, the "condescending" Lady Catherine provided Austen numerous opportunities to satirize Victorian English society. The character interrelationships were quite complex, typical of a Jane Austen novel. The writing was formal, the sentences long, complex, and serpentine. I can certainly see why Austen would have been popular among her contemporaries. My only criticism is that is was predictable in many ways. Austen seemed so determined to make Elizabeth see only the negative qualities in Darcy that, clearly, she was destined to fall in love with him. Still, it was a good read, and I will pick up other Austen novels in the future.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Excellent! Stylistically impressive. The plot was deceptively simple and mild, and the conflict was almost entirely internal. Still, when I got to the end of this short novel, I realized that Joyce had been grappling with issues of sexuality, growth and maturity, Catholicism (and the accompanying guilt), education, (Irish) nationalism, family (esp. the father), and other such universal issues. The writing style became increasingly complex as the novel progressed, which I liked, simulating the protagonist's maturation. I read and loved "Araby", so I was prepared for some of the issues Joyce was probably going to address, and I already admired his style. He is, it is generally understood, one of the most well-developed stylists in English prose. The use of the dash to indicate dialogue was an annoying convention that I could do without. I like my fiction like my football: Americanized! Just kidding. (But the dashes were still annoying!) The book will, hopefully, be a nice prelude to Ulysses which I'm looking forward to tackling in the near future. Maybe I'll feel up to it by the end of the summer, but if I can't finish it, I'm not sure I want to start. I'm reluctant to begin the school year and have that novel hanging over my head.
Wuthering Heights
Just finished this today. I loved it, at first. Then it gradually became boring. The characters are mostly annoying jerks, like in On the Road, except these are less obnoxious and more overtly evil. I had heard about the great love between Catherine and Heathcliff, and knowing this to be a Victorian novel, I prepared myself for an Austen-esque type of romantic story. I loved the Gothic flavor of the opening chapters, which, given my expectations, were a pleasant surprise. Unfortunately, the novel deteriorated from there. My problems with the novel are many. Let's start with the characters. Heathcliff: Major, deliberate jerk. Makes Iago look like a Best Buddy. Catherine Earnshaw: Selfish, opportunistic, prideful, haughty. Edgar: Weak, effeminate loser. Hareton: Brooding jerk (but in a pitiable and ultimately redeemable way; I kind of liked him). Brooding in an Eddie Vedder kind of way. Nelly Dean: Intrusive, annoying, uppity, self-important, outspoken busybody. Somebody (read: Heathcliff) should really have given her a smack-down. Lockwood: Too poorly-drawn to elicit commentary. Linton: Whining, selfish weakling. Whatever torture Heathcliff had been inflicting on him wasn't sufficient; he couldn't die fast enough for me. Hindely: What a jerk! Deserves what he gets and then some. Joseph: Wha' th' foo kiz E sy' in? Ah couldna figger oot 'is accent. (Hey, Bronte! Avoid dialect next time.) Catherine Linton: Flighty, inconsistent, has a nasty case of ADD. So who do I like best? Who cares? They all just die anyway. Next up is creativity. Heathcliff gets rich...somehow. Apparently, Bronte couldn't figure out a believable way. Didn't even bother to hint at it. It just happens. Illnesses: All right, raise your hand if you've got a weak constitution. Wait, you're all too freakin' SICKLY or just plain DEAD to raise your hand! Every inconvenient character comes down with some bizarre, unnamed terminal disease and kicks off prematurely: Catherine E., Hindley, Heathcliff, Edgar, Linton, both elder Earnshaws, ... in short, just about everyone. It was like they lived in some improperly-managed toxic waste facility. And those who weren't busy dying were busy getting married. The setting: Too small. Everything happens either at Wuthering Heights or Thrushcross Grange. Hello, Bronte? Ever hear of broadening the scope? Well, it wasn't all bad. The narrative was annoying as hell, though. We've got, at various times, a story, a story-within-a-story, a story-within-a-story-within-a-story, a story-within ... you get the idea. Why the hell have all those first person narrators? What, didn't they invent the third person omniscient narrator yet? The novel was okay, but its literary stock is much too high, if you ask me. I liked the Gothic element, though.
Atlas Shrugged
I liked this book, but I didn't love it. I enjoyed The Fountainhead much more, and I think it was the better of the two. Atlas was too long, much longer than it needed to be, in my opinion. The scope--intellectually and panoramically--was impressive, and some of the characters were memorable. Dagny and James Taggart, Howard and Lillian Roark, and Francisco d'Anconia were among the most well-drawn and interesting. Rand has a great ear for character voices, and Lillian's ambiguous speeches incorporated subtext brilliantly. On the minus side, the novel asks too much of the reader, and there comes a point about halfway through where suspension of disbelief becomes nearly impossible and the reader is pushed out of the story. Also, the novel was written as a pragmatic illustration of Rand's philosophy of life. However, to set the novel in a fictitious, almost science fiction setting that begs believability, undermines her goal in my mind: How are we to espouse a belief system that its own creator seems to admit requires a contrived setting in which to work effectively? Perhaps she felt she needed to present an extreme case to convince her audience. Perhaps she didn't trust her readers to comprehend the subtleties of her philosophy. I don't really know. All I know is, I do not feel she made as compelling a case as she did in The Fountainhead.
Plus, it was just too long. Did I already mention that?
Paradise Lost
Awesome! Just awesome! Milton's vision of the Fall presented in a classically rhetorical structure within the epic poetry form is moving, exciting, compelling, scary--you name it. It would make a great movie. Great moments: The battle between God's army (led by archangel Michael) and Satan's troops, with Michael simply whaling on Satan. Satan's complexity at seeing the pristine beauty of Eden and the purity of the First Humans. Satan and his demons being turned into snakes after his "victory" over Eve. Adam's sorrow over Eve's weakness, his determination to share her fate no matter what, and his acceptance of his subsequent expulsion from Eden. Lyrical, timeless, inspired, imagistic. A bit preachy, though. Oh, yes. Quite a BIT preachy. But to his credit, Milton does not shy away from trying to understand and present to the reader Satan's grievances. In fact, Satan almost appears a sympathetic character. He's also given more air time than Christ, Michael, and God combined. Advice: Try reading it out loud. Preferably in a crowded subway station.
On the Road
Not worth it. Repetitive, boring, and annoying. Probably, I just read this book at the wrong time in my life. Reminds me of Into the Wild, another book about a self-centered immature jerk. The characters, especially Dean Moriarty (a.k.a. Neal Cassady) were major jerks: selfish, egotistical, uncaring, and infantile in their immaturity. The Tao of Pooh was so much better. A book with Pooh is better than a book worth poo.
The Master and Margarita
Molly Cobb recommended this to me, and I enjoyed it, for the most part. Humorous, intelligent, philosophical, and well-written with great descriptions and characters. The interlaced narrative which was switched between the novel's present and the distant past (i.e., the death of Christ) was compelling, and the stylistic changes the author made to help differentiate those temporal shifts cleverly reflected the subject matter: the story of Christ was written in spare, almost stiff prose, while the present-day story was whimsical and fast-paced. The first half of the book was great, but then the narrative seemed to fade, as if the author couldn't maintain his energy level. (Note: I later found out the Bulgakov died before he had a chance to revise the second half of the work.) Oddly, the title characters were the least interesting ones. Satan, once again, was complex and definitely sympathetic. Weirdly surreal in places, especially Satan's Ball. A good novel, overall.
The Age of Innocence
Subtle and complex. The society Wharton presents is every bit as complicated as any Jane Austen, and much more treacherous. The main character is compelling and believable, and the plot is linear and easy to follow. The dialogue and actions of the characters are less readily accessible, however. The love story conflict is great, and it reminds me in many ways of my second novel: forbidden love, conventions of society, strictures on behavior, etc.. In some ways, I'm mad that Wharton wrote the novel first (and that she did such a good job), but in other ways, I am gratified that I would have an idea similar to that of such an accomplished author. I like the way the author incorporated so much subtext into the dialogue. She explained much of it, but there was still a lot of room for interpretation and interaction on the part of the reader. The novel moved slowly but purposefully. The ending was a disappointment: Anti-climactic and pointless in some ways. I get the whole part about trying to hold the idea of the perfection of the love Archer felt for Olenska in their youths as opposed to tainting it through an attempt to re-kindle it in their waning years, but come on! Here's your chance at real happiness, not just a moderately satisfactory complacency. I guess I have his kid's perspective: Why come all this way and wait all this time just to turn and walk away when your goal is within reach? Sort of belittles his love for her into a mere pining. Probably not a novel I'd come back to anytime soon, but it's a future re-read.
Pride and Prejudice
I liked it more than I liked Emma. The plot was complicated, and the characters were compelling and varied. The father, Mr. Bennet, was my favorite character. He separated himself from his family as a method of self-preservation: With five daughters and a biddy for a wife, he could do nothing else and remain sane. His attitude was great, and his sense of humor was engaging. He poked fun at his wife and acted in many ways as her foil, bringing a welcome sense of pragmatism to the overly-formal society. He had little patience for his wife's flightiness, and he was perfectly willing to let his daughters make their mistakes and learn from them. Mrs. Bennet was a fun character whom we could not take seriously. Her role in the novel was that of catalyst, trying to marry off her daughters as quickly as she could while simultaneously trying to ensure her family's financial future in the inevitable event of her husband's death, the fact of which she continually reminded her husband. Lydia, one of the youngest daughters, was incredibly selfish and obnoxious. It was one thing for her to party all the time with her younger sister and all the officers, and quite another to run off and get married to that poser Wickham. She caused her family all sorts of grief throughout the novel. I'm surprised they didn't cut her off completely. I liked Elizabeth, the main character, much more than I liked Emma from the other novel. She was mature, bright, down-to-earth, and perceptive. She was sensitive without sentimentality. I can see why she was her father's favorite. (Wait, do I have to say 'favourite'?) Darcy was too stand-offish at first, but he was ultimately a good man. Collins was hilarious in his pomposity, especially when he enumerated the practical reasons why Elizabeth should marry him. His obsequious behavior toward his benefactor, the "condescending" Lady Catherine provided Austen numerous opportunities to satirize Victorian English society. The character interrelationships were quite complex, typical of a Jane Austen novel. The writing was formal, the sentences long, complex, and serpentine. I can certainly see why Austen would have been popular among her contemporaries. My only criticism is that is was predictable in many ways. Austen seemed so determined to make Elizabeth see only the negative qualities in Darcy that, clearly, she was destined to fall in love with him. Still, it was a good read, and I will pick up other Austen novels in the future.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Excellent! Stylistically impressive. The plot was deceptively simple and mild, and the conflict was almost entirely internal. Still, when I got to the end of this short novel, I realized that Joyce had been grappling with issues of sexuality, growth and maturity, Catholicism (and the accompanying guilt), education, (Irish) nationalism, family (esp. the father), and other such universal issues. The writing style became increasingly complex as the novel progressed, which I liked, simulating the protagonist's maturation. I read and loved "Araby", so I was prepared for some of the issues Joyce was probably going to address, and I already admired his style. He is, it is generally understood, one of the most well-developed stylists in English prose. The use of the dash to indicate dialogue was an annoying convention that I could do without. I like my fiction like my football: Americanized! Just kidding. (But the dashes were still annoying!) The book will, hopefully, be a nice prelude to Ulysses which I'm looking forward to tackling in the near future. Maybe I'll feel up to it by the end of the summer, but if I can't finish it, I'm not sure I want to start. I'm reluctant to begin the school year and have that novel hanging over my head.
Wuthering Heights
Just finished this today. I loved it, at first. Then it gradually became boring. The characters are mostly annoying jerks, like in On the Road, except these are less obnoxious and more overtly evil. I had heard about the great love between Catherine and Heathcliff, and knowing this to be a Victorian novel, I prepared myself for an Austen-esque type of romantic story. I loved the Gothic flavor of the opening chapters, which, given my expectations, were a pleasant surprise. Unfortunately, the novel deteriorated from there. My problems with the novel are many. Let's start with the characters. Heathcliff: Major, deliberate jerk. Makes Iago look like a Best Buddy. Catherine Earnshaw: Selfish, opportunistic, prideful, haughty. Edgar: Weak, effeminate loser. Hareton: Brooding jerk (but in a pitiable and ultimately redeemable way; I kind of liked him). Brooding in an Eddie Vedder kind of way. Nelly Dean: Intrusive, annoying, uppity, self-important, outspoken busybody. Somebody (read: Heathcliff) should really have given her a smack-down. Lockwood: Too poorly-drawn to elicit commentary. Linton: Whining, selfish weakling. Whatever torture Heathcliff had been inflicting on him wasn't sufficient; he couldn't die fast enough for me. Hindely: What a jerk! Deserves what he gets and then some. Joseph: Wha' th' foo kiz E sy' in? Ah couldna figger oot 'is accent. (Hey, Bronte! Avoid dialect next time.) Catherine Linton: Flighty, inconsistent, has a nasty case of ADD. So who do I like best? Who cares? They all just die anyway. Next up is creativity. Heathcliff gets rich...somehow. Apparently, Bronte couldn't figure out a believable way. Didn't even bother to hint at it. It just happens. Illnesses: All right, raise your hand if you've got a weak constitution. Wait, you're all too freakin' SICKLY or just plain DEAD to raise your hand! Every inconvenient character comes down with some bizarre, unnamed terminal disease and kicks off prematurely: Catherine E., Hindley, Heathcliff, Edgar, Linton, both elder Earnshaws, ... in short, just about everyone. It was like they lived in some improperly-managed toxic waste facility. And those who weren't busy dying were busy getting married. The setting: Too small. Everything happens either at Wuthering Heights or Thrushcross Grange. Hello, Bronte? Ever hear of broadening the scope? Well, it wasn't all bad. The narrative was annoying as hell, though. We've got, at various times, a story, a story-within-a-story, a story-within-a-story-within-a-story, a story-within ... you get the idea. Why the hell have all those first person narrators? What, didn't they invent the third person omniscient narrator yet? The novel was okay, but its literary stock is much too high, if you ask me. I liked the Gothic element, though.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Waiting for you in the poetry section
So I’m standing there, killing time, and I’m picking
up these books of poetry and reading in between
inspections of my watch and they’re pretty good, the poems,
and I find this one–was about beautiful women–and it
reminded me of you, so I got this idea that, here I’d be
when you came in, reading this poetry, and I’d glance
up when you appeared in the doorway, harsh backlight
so you look, I don’t know, let me find an image…here,
like you’re cradled in clouds and there I’d be,
and when you came up to me I’d start reading this poem
about the beautiful women before you could say anything
and you’d be impressed as hell with my nonchalant charm,
but now it’s getting late and you’re not here yet, though
this poetry is pretty good so I’ll just wait a bit more for you.
-M.Fabrizi
The Waiter
By now, after so many years, I know
Everything there is to know about it.
I serve with grace, foreseeing customer needs,
Like that man over there, chuckling at his friend’s joke:
He hasn’t touched his water all night,
But he’s going to need a refill
In a moment I am behind him with the dripping pitcher
Before he puts his empty glass on the table.
I catch the glance of an older woman, well-practiced in the art
Of marriage, only slightly less so in the art of divorce,
Her lipsticked mouth a cracked canyon of red and
Eyes that stare from dark caverns of skin.
I nod to her and head to the bar, scratching her order
With the pencil I keep behind my ear.
I am next to you, grazing your black sleeve of silk,
Peering into the blond web of hair at the curve of your neck.
I take my pencil from behind my ear,
Put it back, take it out again,
Watching you without staring–a trick I have learned–
While you lift your glass to your smile
And the white wine, the wine, the wine--
The annoyed bartender fills my order,
And I take the glass to the marriage expert,
Replacing with a slender glass of chardonnay
Her half-filled highball.
-M.Fabrizi
Everything there is to know about it.
I serve with grace, foreseeing customer needs,
Like that man over there, chuckling at his friend’s joke:
He hasn’t touched his water all night,
But he’s going to need a refill
In a moment I am behind him with the dripping pitcher
Before he puts his empty glass on the table.
I catch the glance of an older woman, well-practiced in the art
Of marriage, only slightly less so in the art of divorce,
Her lipsticked mouth a cracked canyon of red and
Eyes that stare from dark caverns of skin.
I nod to her and head to the bar, scratching her order
With the pencil I keep behind my ear.
I am next to you, grazing your black sleeve of silk,
Peering into the blond web of hair at the curve of your neck.
I take my pencil from behind my ear,
Put it back, take it out again,
Watching you without staring–a trick I have learned–
While you lift your glass to your smile
And the white wine, the wine, the wine--
The annoyed bartender fills my order,
And I take the glass to the marriage expert,
Replacing with a slender glass of chardonnay
Her half-filled highball.
-M.Fabrizi
Heated Verse
What more do we need but a quiet night
of walking in winter’s early darkness?
What more but soft snow falling through spindly branches
that reach heavenward like bent hands in supplication?
What more but the gentle pressure of your hand in mine,
of our laughter muted by snowflakes that flurry around us?
Nothing but poetry breathed in each other’s ears,
steaming from our mouths: as if we need the heated verse
to warm each other on this frozen night.
-M.Fabrizi
of walking in winter’s early darkness?
What more but soft snow falling through spindly branches
that reach heavenward like bent hands in supplication?
What more but the gentle pressure of your hand in mine,
of our laughter muted by snowflakes that flurry around us?
Nothing but poetry breathed in each other’s ears,
steaming from our mouths: as if we need the heated verse
to warm each other on this frozen night.
-M.Fabrizi
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Uncle Tom's Cabin
Okay, okay. So I started this book many years ago when I co-taught "History in Literature and Film" with Brian Bodner. I never actually finished the book back then; I only got about 1/3 of the way through it. I figured it was about time I finished it.
I liked the plot and characters. Stowe, for a Nineteenth century New England Baptist, has a great sense of dialogue. Her slave characters had interesting and slightly varied dialects (difficult to write well), and the evil characters (e.g., the diabolical Simon Legree) were frightening in their viciousness. All the characters had original, unique voices, and Stowe fleshed them out thoroughly with extensive backgrounds. Overall, the story was realistic, an aspect confirmed by the superfluous and didactic final chapter in which she relates many of the real-life anecdotes upon which numerous novel events were based.
The book had some memorable scenes: Eliza crossing the Ohio River, infant in her arms, by jumping across floes of ice (an event supposedly based upon reality), the death of little Eva, the wonderfully careless but compassionate Augustus St. Clare, and of course the emotional death of Uncle Tom himself. The book was surprisingly humorous, despite- or perhaps because of--its serpentine prose and intrusive narrator. Maudlin at times, preachy and overwritten on occasion, and with a series of final coincidences that stretch believability, the book nevertheless was enjoyable to read. The ending (i.e., the final two chapters) dragged horribly, but I can forgive her inability to resist driving home her point and providing a happy ending for as many of her characters as she could, considering what she undertook in writing the novel. Abraham Lincoln certainly had a high opinion of the novel, as evidenced by his comment upon meeting Harriet Beecher Stowe at a White House reception: "So you're the little woman who wrote the book that made the great war!"
I liked the plot and characters. Stowe, for a Nineteenth century New England Baptist, has a great sense of dialogue. Her slave characters had interesting and slightly varied dialects (difficult to write well), and the evil characters (e.g., the diabolical Simon Legree) were frightening in their viciousness. All the characters had original, unique voices, and Stowe fleshed them out thoroughly with extensive backgrounds. Overall, the story was realistic, an aspect confirmed by the superfluous and didactic final chapter in which she relates many of the real-life anecdotes upon which numerous novel events were based.
The book had some memorable scenes: Eliza crossing the Ohio River, infant in her arms, by jumping across floes of ice (an event supposedly based upon reality), the death of little Eva, the wonderfully careless but compassionate Augustus St. Clare, and of course the emotional death of Uncle Tom himself. The book was surprisingly humorous, despite- or perhaps because of--its serpentine prose and intrusive narrator. Maudlin at times, preachy and overwritten on occasion, and with a series of final coincidences that stretch believability, the book nevertheless was enjoyable to read. The ending (i.e., the final two chapters) dragged horribly, but I can forgive her inability to resist driving home her point and providing a happy ending for as many of her characters as she could, considering what she undertook in writing the novel. Abraham Lincoln certainly had a high opinion of the novel, as evidenced by his comment upon meeting Harriet Beecher Stowe at a White House reception: "So you're the little woman who wrote the book that made the great war!"
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Crime and Punishment, Final Thoughts
(I shouldn’t have waited so long to do my blog. I’ve forgotten too much.)
I very much enjoyed reading Crime and Punishment, and while it did not make my Top Ten List, it is probably somewhere in my top twenty. I’ll re-read it eventually, but not in the near future. I enjoyed it much more than reading Don Quixote. I liked the complexity of the characters, the inner turmoil of Raskolnikov, the humor, the rambling monologues, the plot twists, the various stylistic devices, and the cliff-hanger endings of some of the chapters. In many ways, it was a typical Dostoevsky novel. Not that I am some kind of F.D. expert; it just reminds me of The Brothers Karamazov and from what I have read of the author, it seems illustrative of his writing style and thematic explorations. I remember liking Karamazov, though as one of his later novels, B.K. clearly has the advantage of a prose style that is more mature/refined/developed–whatever. Also, as my first Dostoevsky novel, it holds special places in my heart and my intellect.
In looking back on my comments, I see that many of my predictions came true to a certain extent. I don’t take too much credit for this, nor am I particularly disappointed: The novel is too much a part of the zeitgeist for me to have escaped any subliminal influences on plot elements; also, Dostoevsky’s story, characters, and writing style were compelling enough to maintain my interest throughout the novel.
Raskolnikov’s eventual redemption through religion was not a surprise, again, given Dostoevsky’s religious beliefs. I liked the way he didn’t end the novel with Raskolnikov’s confession. True, the confession ends the novel proper, but the Epilogue is such an essential part of the story (much as the Prologue and Epilogue are critical to Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man) that it must be considered in order to provide full thematic closure. Although Raskolnikov endures hardships in prison, his material/corporeal punishment does not fully redeem him, nor can any amount thereof: He needs spiritual forgiveness as well, his resistance to which causes his fellow inmates to treat him with antagonism.
So ultimately, Raskolnikov really was trying to demonstrate his “extraordinariness” to the world. I said earlier that this idea did not make sense to me, and I stand by that conclusion. This, in my eyes, is the weakness–not “failing,” because in my view this novel in no way fails–of the novel. It’s weak because Raskolnikov’s article concerned “great” men, like Napoleon (to whom Raskolnikov compares himself several times), who committed lesser crimes while on their way toward achieving greatness. However, his contention in the article is that such men can be forgiven their lesser, incidental crimes because of the sheer magnitude of their exceptionality. Raskolnikov intentionally commits a crime before he does anything to make him worthy of extraordinariness. His conscience overcomes him; it is not that society cannot forgive his actions in light of his greatness. Raskolnikov’s double-murder is an end in itself, not a means to an end (his intentional crime juxtaposed with the incidental crimes of exceptional men), which makes him simply a criminal, in my eyes. Thus, in crafting Raskolnikov’s attempt–his “experiment”–part of Dostoevsky’s theme is doomed from the start because he committed a logical fallacy: faulty analogy. Therefore, I don’t buy Raskolnikov’s motive, although its originality goes far in winning me over. (It may seem that I am nitpicking, and perhaps I am. The novel is a masterwork, and when dealing with a text of such impressive scope and extraordinary depth of thought, all one is left with is a critique of thematic “shadings”.) Of course, it could be that Dostoevsky was trying to illustrate Raskolnikov's “ordinariness” through his mistake in logic, and I suppose that one would have a point. However, because of Raskolnikov's demonstrated intelligence throughout the novel, such an error in reasoning doesn't make sense. I think it is more likely that Dostoevsky is simply trying to explore the destructiveness of guilt and the power of redemption through religious faith.
Favorite scenes: the murder (of course), the first police station scene, the “interview” with Luzhin and Raskolnikov’s family, both conversations with Porfiry in the lawyer's office, Sonia’s reading of the “Lazarus miracle” to Raskolnikov, Marmeladov’s funeral dinner (both chapters), Raskolnikov’s confession to Sonia, Porfiry’s visit to Raskolnikov, the street scene just before Katerina Ivanovna kicks it, Dounia pulling a gun on Svidrigailov and actually firing it! Woman's got some guts!
Liked: Razumihin, Raskolnikov’s self-destructiveness, Dounia (a great, strong female character), Luzhin (but only because he’s such an ass), Porfiry. I liked Katerina Ivanovna, who died of consumption (and was herself “consumed” with the idea of her family’s pseudo-respectability) and was wacky enough in her interpretations of reality to simultaneously excite both pity and humor.
Didn’t like: All the fevers Raskolnikov endured, the numerous dreams, Sonia (too delicate), Zametov, Svidrigailov (I liked him at first, but he lost me after his discussion with Raskolnikov; I wish Dounia had killed the bastard in his room; I was glad when he shot himself), all the freakin' Russian name variations (sheesh!).
I’m forgetting something here. Raskolnikov was right about Sonia, and she about him. I thought his vacillation over whether to turn himself in at the end was believable and interesting, especially when he kissed the ground at the crossroads (how appropriately literary!). His actions were that much more meaningful since he had no idea Sonia was there watching him (thus, his actions weren’t “for show”). When he left the police station the first time in the last chapter, I thought he was going to wimp out and leave for good, then try to live with his guilt. One look at Sonia was all he needed to accept his punishment. She really was his redemption.
I very much enjoyed reading Crime and Punishment, and while it did not make my Top Ten List, it is probably somewhere in my top twenty. I’ll re-read it eventually, but not in the near future. I enjoyed it much more than reading Don Quixote. I liked the complexity of the characters, the inner turmoil of Raskolnikov, the humor, the rambling monologues, the plot twists, the various stylistic devices, and the cliff-hanger endings of some of the chapters. In many ways, it was a typical Dostoevsky novel. Not that I am some kind of F.D. expert; it just reminds me of The Brothers Karamazov and from what I have read of the author, it seems illustrative of his writing style and thematic explorations. I remember liking Karamazov, though as one of his later novels, B.K. clearly has the advantage of a prose style that is more mature/refined/developed–whatever. Also, as my first Dostoevsky novel, it holds special places in my heart and my intellect.
In looking back on my comments, I see that many of my predictions came true to a certain extent. I don’t take too much credit for this, nor am I particularly disappointed: The novel is too much a part of the zeitgeist for me to have escaped any subliminal influences on plot elements; also, Dostoevsky’s story, characters, and writing style were compelling enough to maintain my interest throughout the novel.
Raskolnikov’s eventual redemption through religion was not a surprise, again, given Dostoevsky’s religious beliefs. I liked the way he didn’t end the novel with Raskolnikov’s confession. True, the confession ends the novel proper, but the Epilogue is such an essential part of the story (much as the Prologue and Epilogue are critical to Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man) that it must be considered in order to provide full thematic closure. Although Raskolnikov endures hardships in prison, his material/corporeal punishment does not fully redeem him, nor can any amount thereof: He needs spiritual forgiveness as well, his resistance to which causes his fellow inmates to treat him with antagonism.
So ultimately, Raskolnikov really was trying to demonstrate his “extraordinariness” to the world. I said earlier that this idea did not make sense to me, and I stand by that conclusion. This, in my eyes, is the weakness–not “failing,” because in my view this novel in no way fails–of the novel. It’s weak because Raskolnikov’s article concerned “great” men, like Napoleon (to whom Raskolnikov compares himself several times), who committed lesser crimes while on their way toward achieving greatness. However, his contention in the article is that such men can be forgiven their lesser, incidental crimes because of the sheer magnitude of their exceptionality. Raskolnikov intentionally commits a crime before he does anything to make him worthy of extraordinariness. His conscience overcomes him; it is not that society cannot forgive his actions in light of his greatness. Raskolnikov’s double-murder is an end in itself, not a means to an end (his intentional crime juxtaposed with the incidental crimes of exceptional men), which makes him simply a criminal, in my eyes. Thus, in crafting Raskolnikov’s attempt–his “experiment”–part of Dostoevsky’s theme is doomed from the start because he committed a logical fallacy: faulty analogy. Therefore, I don’t buy Raskolnikov’s motive, although its originality goes far in winning me over. (It may seem that I am nitpicking, and perhaps I am. The novel is a masterwork, and when dealing with a text of such impressive scope and extraordinary depth of thought, all one is left with is a critique of thematic “shadings”.) Of course, it could be that Dostoevsky was trying to illustrate Raskolnikov's “ordinariness” through his mistake in logic, and I suppose that one would have a point. However, because of Raskolnikov's demonstrated intelligence throughout the novel, such an error in reasoning doesn't make sense. I think it is more likely that Dostoevsky is simply trying to explore the destructiveness of guilt and the power of redemption through religious faith.
Favorite scenes: the murder (of course), the first police station scene, the “interview” with Luzhin and Raskolnikov’s family, both conversations with Porfiry in the lawyer's office, Sonia’s reading of the “Lazarus miracle” to Raskolnikov, Marmeladov’s funeral dinner (both chapters), Raskolnikov’s confession to Sonia, Porfiry’s visit to Raskolnikov, the street scene just before Katerina Ivanovna kicks it, Dounia pulling a gun on Svidrigailov and actually firing it! Woman's got some guts!
Liked: Razumihin, Raskolnikov’s self-destructiveness, Dounia (a great, strong female character), Luzhin (but only because he’s such an ass), Porfiry. I liked Katerina Ivanovna, who died of consumption (and was herself “consumed” with the idea of her family’s pseudo-respectability) and was wacky enough in her interpretations of reality to simultaneously excite both pity and humor.
Didn’t like: All the fevers Raskolnikov endured, the numerous dreams, Sonia (too delicate), Zametov, Svidrigailov (I liked him at first, but he lost me after his discussion with Raskolnikov; I wish Dounia had killed the bastard in his room; I was glad when he shot himself), all the freakin' Russian name variations (sheesh!).
I’m forgetting something here. Raskolnikov was right about Sonia, and she about him. I thought his vacillation over whether to turn himself in at the end was believable and interesting, especially when he kissed the ground at the crossroads (how appropriately literary!). His actions were that much more meaningful since he had no idea Sonia was there watching him (thus, his actions weren’t “for show”). When he left the police station the first time in the last chapter, I thought he was going to wimp out and leave for good, then try to live with his guilt. One look at Sonia was all he needed to accept his punishment. She really was his redemption.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Crime and Punishment, Part Four
The opening chapter conversation with Svidrigailov was interesting. (Now I know who he is!) I have to say, I liked his manner–literarily speaking–in a way similar to my liking of Lillian Rearden, though he was certainly not nearly as subtle. He ignored questions he didn’t like or didn’t want to answer, and he had an easygoing manner of speech. I am suspicious of his offer of ten thousand roubles. It sounds nice on the surface, but Raskolnikov was immediately wary – as he should have been – and his judgment seems to have been sound up until now, so I trust his opinion in this, too. If it sounds too good to be true, …
Chapter Two ranks as one of my favorites so far. Luzhin was so cocky, so arrogant, so self-assured that when even Pulcheria started ranking on him, I laughed out loud! She held her own against Luzhin and came across as much smarter and more confident than I had originally thought her to be. Dounia deserves credit for the way she framed the discussion, allowing each man to present his side. Particularly telling was the fact that Raskolnikov said nothing in response to her. I kept expecting him to object or to yell, but he didn’t. He clearly knows his sister and took her tone as the warning in which it was obviously intended. She’s got some cojones on her.
Raskolnikov was great throughout the conversation: he didn’t need to say a word. He just sat and enjoyed the show. Razumihin nearly beat the snot out of Luzhin at the end, and I almost hoped he would. Luzhin deserved to get whaled on after some of the things he said. I guess we can see Luzhin’s true colors, now, especially since the narrator has chosen to make a more pronounced appearance in these chapters. His comment at the end of chapter two surprised me with its authoritativeness. I was used to the limited narrator, so when the omniscient voice showed up, I was a bit disconcerted. At least we didn’t have those “foreshadowings” which are really heavy-handed authorial intrusions on the narrative (e.g., “Gage, who now had less than two months to live, …”). Particularly interesting was the narrator’s choice of the word “victims” to describe Dounia and Pulcheria in regards to Luzhin. The narrator seems to have dropped any pretense of objectivity. Speaking of which, if I recall properly, the final paragraph of chapter three is the first appearance of the first person pronoun in reference to the narrator. Odd.
I thought Raskolnikov was going to get into trouble with his family when he admitted to seating a prostitute in the presence of his mother and sister. It’ll be even more of a scandal if the two of them "get together." I was stunned when Raskolnikov left his family at the end of chapter four. It was insensitive and selfish of him to insist that Razumihin take his place as son and brother, though I think that Raz is the type of person who would not mind it so much. His plan for becoming a publisher is timely, and Raskolnikov’s support of his idea makes sense in a literary way. I wonder if this is Dostoevsky’s way of getting rid of them as characters and telling the reader that they’ll be fine.
I was not surprised by Raskolnikov’s visit to Sonia, or of his asking her to go away with him. You could see his interest in her at first glance when they met. His probing of her religious beliefs incorporated a long-missed element of the Dostoevsky novel: religion. Although we’ve had sporadic mentions of God throughout, Raskolnikov himself seems to be an atheist, although Sonia did her best to convert him. Perhaps she even succeeded. At any rate, it was a powerfully moving chapter (four). What role eaves-dropping Svidrigailov will play remains to be seen. Once again, Raskolnikov proves himself astute in his conclusions about others.
Porfiry’s interview with Raskolnikov was intense. The descriptions we got of the way Porfiry asked questions – his looks, his mannerisms, his facial expressions – were agonizingly ambiguous, and the reader was right alongside Raskolnikov’s uncertainty as we tried to pierce his veil and discover his motives. I confess I believed Porfiry was being genuine with Raskolnikov throughout much of the discussion, especially considering Raskolnikov’s frame of mind and his interpretations of Porfiry and despite his ramblings about the guilty person who, if given enough rope, will hang themselves. However, his remembrance of the person who admitted to the crime although they were innocent was delicious foreshadowing. I had a feeling that the fat, womanish man was the “surprise” behind Door #3, but his appearance to Raskolnikov in Chapter Six robbed the novel of some tension and uncertainty. Dostoevsky might be trying to tie up some loose ends and simplifying his complex plot: He’s all but removed (or at least made it possible to remove) Raskolnikov’s mother and sister from the book, not to mention Razumihin, he’s clarified Raskolnikov’s relationship with Sonia, and he’s let us (and Raskolnikov) see Porfiry’s hand. I am pleased that Raskolnikov no longer seems bothered by the guilt of the murder, though he does feel regret for having killed Lizaveta, and is now bent on avoiding his own capture and conviction by police. The only question is, how will Sonia react when he tells her? I think, given her religiosity, she will reject him utterly. Svidrigailov will overhear Raskolnikov's confession and use it to try to blackmail him, possibly trying to get Raskolnikov to give him the hand of his sister Dounia in marriage. So many possibilties! I guess Dostoevsky didn't really need all those loose ends, after all.
Speaking of Sonia, Raskolnikov compares the two of them as “fellow sinners,” but I think this in an unfair comparison. Sonia was driven to prostitution through desperation and attempted to sacrifice herself for her family. It was love that drove her actions. What drove Raskolnikov? Rob and I were discussing his motive, and neither of us felt that money was the motive, since Raskolnikov got next to nothing from the woman (and hid what little he did receive, gaining no benefit), and he does not seem particularly distressed by his lack of financial success. Was he trying to demonstrate that he could get away with murder, thus proving himself (by his own definition) to be an “extraordinary” man? Upon reflection, that doesn’t make sense to me – though I like that idea better than the money idea – because it would not prove that Raskolnikov was above the law, only that he could flout it. Perhaps he was, or is, mad after all.
Chapter Two ranks as one of my favorites so far. Luzhin was so cocky, so arrogant, so self-assured that when even Pulcheria started ranking on him, I laughed out loud! She held her own against Luzhin and came across as much smarter and more confident than I had originally thought her to be. Dounia deserves credit for the way she framed the discussion, allowing each man to present his side. Particularly telling was the fact that Raskolnikov said nothing in response to her. I kept expecting him to object or to yell, but he didn’t. He clearly knows his sister and took her tone as the warning in which it was obviously intended. She’s got some cojones on her.
Raskolnikov was great throughout the conversation: he didn’t need to say a word. He just sat and enjoyed the show. Razumihin nearly beat the snot out of Luzhin at the end, and I almost hoped he would. Luzhin deserved to get whaled on after some of the things he said. I guess we can see Luzhin’s true colors, now, especially since the narrator has chosen to make a more pronounced appearance in these chapters. His comment at the end of chapter two surprised me with its authoritativeness. I was used to the limited narrator, so when the omniscient voice showed up, I was a bit disconcerted. At least we didn’t have those “foreshadowings” which are really heavy-handed authorial intrusions on the narrative (e.g., “Gage, who now had less than two months to live, …”). Particularly interesting was the narrator’s choice of the word “victims” to describe Dounia and Pulcheria in regards to Luzhin. The narrator seems to have dropped any pretense of objectivity. Speaking of which, if I recall properly, the final paragraph of chapter three is the first appearance of the first person pronoun in reference to the narrator. Odd.
I thought Raskolnikov was going to get into trouble with his family when he admitted to seating a prostitute in the presence of his mother and sister. It’ll be even more of a scandal if the two of them "get together." I was stunned when Raskolnikov left his family at the end of chapter four. It was insensitive and selfish of him to insist that Razumihin take his place as son and brother, though I think that Raz is the type of person who would not mind it so much. His plan for becoming a publisher is timely, and Raskolnikov’s support of his idea makes sense in a literary way. I wonder if this is Dostoevsky’s way of getting rid of them as characters and telling the reader that they’ll be fine.
I was not surprised by Raskolnikov’s visit to Sonia, or of his asking her to go away with him. You could see his interest in her at first glance when they met. His probing of her religious beliefs incorporated a long-missed element of the Dostoevsky novel: religion. Although we’ve had sporadic mentions of God throughout, Raskolnikov himself seems to be an atheist, although Sonia did her best to convert him. Perhaps she even succeeded. At any rate, it was a powerfully moving chapter (four). What role eaves-dropping Svidrigailov will play remains to be seen. Once again, Raskolnikov proves himself astute in his conclusions about others.
Porfiry’s interview with Raskolnikov was intense. The descriptions we got of the way Porfiry asked questions – his looks, his mannerisms, his facial expressions – were agonizingly ambiguous, and the reader was right alongside Raskolnikov’s uncertainty as we tried to pierce his veil and discover his motives. I confess I believed Porfiry was being genuine with Raskolnikov throughout much of the discussion, especially considering Raskolnikov’s frame of mind and his interpretations of Porfiry and despite his ramblings about the guilty person who, if given enough rope, will hang themselves. However, his remembrance of the person who admitted to the crime although they were innocent was delicious foreshadowing. I had a feeling that the fat, womanish man was the “surprise” behind Door #3, but his appearance to Raskolnikov in Chapter Six robbed the novel of some tension and uncertainty. Dostoevsky might be trying to tie up some loose ends and simplifying his complex plot: He’s all but removed (or at least made it possible to remove) Raskolnikov’s mother and sister from the book, not to mention Razumihin, he’s clarified Raskolnikov’s relationship with Sonia, and he’s let us (and Raskolnikov) see Porfiry’s hand. I am pleased that Raskolnikov no longer seems bothered by the guilt of the murder, though he does feel regret for having killed Lizaveta, and is now bent on avoiding his own capture and conviction by police. The only question is, how will Sonia react when he tells her? I think, given her religiosity, she will reject him utterly. Svidrigailov will overhear Raskolnikov's confession and use it to try to blackmail him, possibly trying to get Raskolnikov to give him the hand of his sister Dounia in marriage. So many possibilties! I guess Dostoevsky didn't really need all those loose ends, after all.
Speaking of Sonia, Raskolnikov compares the two of them as “fellow sinners,” but I think this in an unfair comparison. Sonia was driven to prostitution through desperation and attempted to sacrifice herself for her family. It was love that drove her actions. What drove Raskolnikov? Rob and I were discussing his motive, and neither of us felt that money was the motive, since Raskolnikov got next to nothing from the woman (and hid what little he did receive, gaining no benefit), and he does not seem particularly distressed by his lack of financial success. Was he trying to demonstrate that he could get away with murder, thus proving himself (by his own definition) to be an “extraordinary” man? Upon reflection, that doesn’t make sense to me – though I like that idea better than the money idea – because it would not prove that Raskolnikov was above the law, only that he could flout it. Perhaps he was, or is, mad after all.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Crime and Punishment, Part Three
No surprise: Razumihin is in love with Dounia. You could see this one coming a mile away. He escorted Dounia and her mother home, checked in (overly-solicitously) on Raskolnikov, and generally demonstrated his willingness to please. His regret the next morning when he sobered up was expected as well. His embarrassment at the start of Part Three was cute, and Dounia found it endearing. I think (hope) they’ll end up together.
The narrative became more traditional in the sense that we’ve moved outside the limited narrator of Raskolnikov’s mind and into third person omniscient. Dostoevsky seems satisfied to have established the frame of mind of his protagonist sufficiently so that he can now cause things to happen within that framework. I find it clever that all the characters are concerned about so many different things: the murder, Raskolnikov’s health, money, Luzhin, love, etc.. Their conversations and perspectives are engagingly complicated, especially Dounia and Raskolnikov. They share a particularly close relationship, and Dounia strikes me as very mature for her age. She’s, what, eighteen? Twenty? Speaking of her, she’s starting to fall for Razumihin, though she doesn’t want to admit it. She was dismayed when he spoke well (albeit somewhat ambiguously) about Luzhin. Whatever her initial reasons for accepting Luzhin’s proposal, she now feels honor-bound, in part, to stay the course. I found it telling, however, when she called Luzhin a “contemptible slanderer” to the dismay of her mother. She certainly was shaken when Raskolnikov critiqued Luzhin’s letter. I think that was the first indication that she was not entirely committed to her relationship with Luzhin. That relationship is doomed. Matter of time.
The mother, by the way, is weak and not the sharpest pencil in the box. Raskolnikov tortures her with his behavior: she does not have half the wit she needs to understand him. I liked his response to comment that “everything you do is good.” “Don’t be too sure,” he tells her. He’s just aching for a punishment.
I liked the fact that Sonia came to visit. Her awkwardness was so cute! Raskolnikov is attracted to that sort of needy girl, as evidenced by his betrothal to that troglodyte, the landlady’s daughter. Sonia will be his savior in the end.
I loved the conversation with Porfiry! And the presence of Zametov, though he hardly did anything more than snort, was a creative complication to the scene. But clearly, Porfiry did not know that Raskolnikov was going to be there at that time and thus could not have invited Zametov in order to “trap” Raskolnikov, so his (Raskolnikiov’s) worry about Zametov’s presence was unnecessary. It was purely a coincidence. I was sweating through the conversation, especially since Raskolnikov does not seem to want to get caught now and is much more lucid. (BTW, Raskolnikov is now much more calculating in his responses to people, and his thought process betrays a great deal of deliberation.) However, I think he’s really just interested in the challenge of it all. He seemed actually to enjoy the conversation about the nature of criminals with Porfiry, and he rose – admirably – to the challenge of Porfiry’s final question about the painters at the flat. (His response was awesome! I have so much more respect for Raskolnikov as a thinker after his response to Porfiry’s inquiry.) Also, he commits this heinous crime, receives virtually no personal gain as a result, drops a ton of hints as to his guilt left and right, but tries desperately to avoid detection. He is tortured by the crime immensely, yet he puts himself in the position of having to extricate himself from several self-inflicted implications. He’s either testing the system to see if he can get away with it – and by extension define himself as an “extraordinary” person – or he has a bizarre, masochistic tendency toward self-destruction.
This last observation interests me, as Razumihin’s comment about the social order contributing to, or being the cause of, crime. It seems to me that Razumihin is correct, although I’m starting to have a lower opinion of his intellect, as I’ll comment on later. A perfectly constructed social order will not eliminate crime. Human nature tends toward conflict. We need it in our lives. We crave it. For proof, one need only look at the popularity of films, especially violent ones. What we lack in our lives, we yearn to experience vicariously through story-telling (any kind: film, novel, poetry, drama, etc.), and one of the elements we crave is conflict. If the desire for conflict becomes too great and the vicarious satisfaction too empty, we act in apparently self-destructive ways to satisfy ourselves. In reality, we are adding excitement to our lives. Some people believe that to suffer is to live, and they strive toward suffering as a way to realize their humanity and experience the gamut of human sensibility. Raskolnikov strikes me as this manner of person. He suffers in his poverty, yes, but his suffering is merely physical. His takes the life of two people and now his suffering increases exponentially: It becomes intellectual, a suffering of the soul. Immensely gratifying, seductive, even addictive. His crime, although it weighs down his soul, has actually elevated him by adding another dimension to his person. People need conflict in their lives, and when they don’t have it, they create it. Some people just need more conflict and/or conflict of a greater degree. Raskolnikov is one of the latter.
Now, Razumihin, I predict, will be Raskolnikov’s downfall, if he (Raskolnikov) has not already caused his own destruction through his “delirious” comments. Their conversation at the end of Chapter Six is going to bring the ruin. Raskolnikov, in his distraction and exasperation, pretty much explained to Razumihin why he responded to Porfiry’s question as he did, and while the explanation was far from an admission of guilt, Razumihin seemed – in his innocent support of Raskolnikov –to become inflamed at Porfiry, enough so that he will return to him and excoriate him for suspecting Raskolnikov of the murder. He will relate their conversation, or at least the gist of it, to Porfiry which will provide the latter with sufficient information to suspect Raskolnikov even further. Razumihin wasn’t sharp enough to pick up on the subtleties of Raskolnikov’s comments (e.g., why did he have to think through his answer to minimize the appearance of his guilt rather than just give an honest response? Isn’t his explanation an admission of guilt itself?). He’ll take them at face value rather than see that, in explaining his thought process to Razumihin, Raskolnikov was almost admitting that he needed to out-think Porfiry in order to respond properly and “safely” without implicating himself. He came dangerously close to telling Razumihin that he couldn’t rely on the truth and so had to actively fabricate a response to avoid the trap Porfiry had set for him. Razumihin didn’t interpret Raskolnikov’s response this way, but Porfiry certainly would.
Two surprises in the last chapter: The fat guy looking for Raskolnikov, and the young-looking old guy (Svidrigailov) who found him. I’m not going to address the whole dream thing (not another one!) except to say that Raskolnikov’s subconscious recognizes the irony and pointlessness of the murder. I was surprised about the fat guy, and if I were Raskolnikov, I’d have chased after that bastard, indignant as all hell. In fact, that’s probably the way I’d act, if I had killed someone. (Where’s Zametov when you need him?) I’d pretend that no one, not even eyewitnesses, has any idea it was me. Deny, deny, deny. Then I’d bury the loot under a big rock. If all the evidence is circumstantial – which it seems to be – then Raskolnikov’s conviction is virtually dependent upon his admission of guilt.
Svidrigailov followed Sonia, but I don’t know why. Then he found Raskolnikov, but again, I don’t know why. I remember his name was mentioned earlier in the novel – by Razumihin, I think – but I forget the significance. Does anyone remember where or when he was mentioned? I wonder what part he’ll play? Raskolnikov seems quite surprised that he showed up. I can’t wait to see who he is and what he wants.
How’s this for a low-brow conversation starter: How many shots of vodka will it take to put Razumihin under the table? Who will win in a slap-down fight: Dounia or Sonya? If Raskolnikov were alive today, would he be an Ayn Rand fan?
The narrative became more traditional in the sense that we’ve moved outside the limited narrator of Raskolnikov’s mind and into third person omniscient. Dostoevsky seems satisfied to have established the frame of mind of his protagonist sufficiently so that he can now cause things to happen within that framework. I find it clever that all the characters are concerned about so many different things: the murder, Raskolnikov’s health, money, Luzhin, love, etc.. Their conversations and perspectives are engagingly complicated, especially Dounia and Raskolnikov. They share a particularly close relationship, and Dounia strikes me as very mature for her age. She’s, what, eighteen? Twenty? Speaking of her, she’s starting to fall for Razumihin, though she doesn’t want to admit it. She was dismayed when he spoke well (albeit somewhat ambiguously) about Luzhin. Whatever her initial reasons for accepting Luzhin’s proposal, she now feels honor-bound, in part, to stay the course. I found it telling, however, when she called Luzhin a “contemptible slanderer” to the dismay of her mother. She certainly was shaken when Raskolnikov critiqued Luzhin’s letter. I think that was the first indication that she was not entirely committed to her relationship with Luzhin. That relationship is doomed. Matter of time.
The mother, by the way, is weak and not the sharpest pencil in the box. Raskolnikov tortures her with his behavior: she does not have half the wit she needs to understand him. I liked his response to comment that “everything you do is good.” “Don’t be too sure,” he tells her. He’s just aching for a punishment.
I liked the fact that Sonia came to visit. Her awkwardness was so cute! Raskolnikov is attracted to that sort of needy girl, as evidenced by his betrothal to that troglodyte, the landlady’s daughter. Sonia will be his savior in the end.
I loved the conversation with Porfiry! And the presence of Zametov, though he hardly did anything more than snort, was a creative complication to the scene. But clearly, Porfiry did not know that Raskolnikov was going to be there at that time and thus could not have invited Zametov in order to “trap” Raskolnikov, so his (Raskolnikiov’s) worry about Zametov’s presence was unnecessary. It was purely a coincidence. I was sweating through the conversation, especially since Raskolnikov does not seem to want to get caught now and is much more lucid. (BTW, Raskolnikov is now much more calculating in his responses to people, and his thought process betrays a great deal of deliberation.) However, I think he’s really just interested in the challenge of it all. He seemed actually to enjoy the conversation about the nature of criminals with Porfiry, and he rose – admirably – to the challenge of Porfiry’s final question about the painters at the flat. (His response was awesome! I have so much more respect for Raskolnikov as a thinker after his response to Porfiry’s inquiry.) Also, he commits this heinous crime, receives virtually no personal gain as a result, drops a ton of hints as to his guilt left and right, but tries desperately to avoid detection. He is tortured by the crime immensely, yet he puts himself in the position of having to extricate himself from several self-inflicted implications. He’s either testing the system to see if he can get away with it – and by extension define himself as an “extraordinary” person – or he has a bizarre, masochistic tendency toward self-destruction.
This last observation interests me, as Razumihin’s comment about the social order contributing to, or being the cause of, crime. It seems to me that Razumihin is correct, although I’m starting to have a lower opinion of his intellect, as I’ll comment on later. A perfectly constructed social order will not eliminate crime. Human nature tends toward conflict. We need it in our lives. We crave it. For proof, one need only look at the popularity of films, especially violent ones. What we lack in our lives, we yearn to experience vicariously through story-telling (any kind: film, novel, poetry, drama, etc.), and one of the elements we crave is conflict. If the desire for conflict becomes too great and the vicarious satisfaction too empty, we act in apparently self-destructive ways to satisfy ourselves. In reality, we are adding excitement to our lives. Some people believe that to suffer is to live, and they strive toward suffering as a way to realize their humanity and experience the gamut of human sensibility. Raskolnikov strikes me as this manner of person. He suffers in his poverty, yes, but his suffering is merely physical. His takes the life of two people and now his suffering increases exponentially: It becomes intellectual, a suffering of the soul. Immensely gratifying, seductive, even addictive. His crime, although it weighs down his soul, has actually elevated him by adding another dimension to his person. People need conflict in their lives, and when they don’t have it, they create it. Some people just need more conflict and/or conflict of a greater degree. Raskolnikov is one of the latter.
Now, Razumihin, I predict, will be Raskolnikov’s downfall, if he (Raskolnikov) has not already caused his own destruction through his “delirious” comments. Their conversation at the end of Chapter Six is going to bring the ruin. Raskolnikov, in his distraction and exasperation, pretty much explained to Razumihin why he responded to Porfiry’s question as he did, and while the explanation was far from an admission of guilt, Razumihin seemed – in his innocent support of Raskolnikov –to become inflamed at Porfiry, enough so that he will return to him and excoriate him for suspecting Raskolnikov of the murder. He will relate their conversation, or at least the gist of it, to Porfiry which will provide the latter with sufficient information to suspect Raskolnikov even further. Razumihin wasn’t sharp enough to pick up on the subtleties of Raskolnikov’s comments (e.g., why did he have to think through his answer to minimize the appearance of his guilt rather than just give an honest response? Isn’t his explanation an admission of guilt itself?). He’ll take them at face value rather than see that, in explaining his thought process to Razumihin, Raskolnikov was almost admitting that he needed to out-think Porfiry in order to respond properly and “safely” without implicating himself. He came dangerously close to telling Razumihin that he couldn’t rely on the truth and so had to actively fabricate a response to avoid the trap Porfiry had set for him. Razumihin didn’t interpret Raskolnikov’s response this way, but Porfiry certainly would.
Two surprises in the last chapter: The fat guy looking for Raskolnikov, and the young-looking old guy (Svidrigailov) who found him. I’m not going to address the whole dream thing (not another one!) except to say that Raskolnikov’s subconscious recognizes the irony and pointlessness of the murder. I was surprised about the fat guy, and if I were Raskolnikov, I’d have chased after that bastard, indignant as all hell. In fact, that’s probably the way I’d act, if I had killed someone. (Where’s Zametov when you need him?) I’d pretend that no one, not even eyewitnesses, has any idea it was me. Deny, deny, deny. Then I’d bury the loot under a big rock. If all the evidence is circumstantial – which it seems to be – then Raskolnikov’s conviction is virtually dependent upon his admission of guilt.
Svidrigailov followed Sonia, but I don’t know why. Then he found Raskolnikov, but again, I don’t know why. I remember his name was mentioned earlier in the novel – by Razumihin, I think – but I forget the significance. Does anyone remember where or when he was mentioned? I wonder what part he’ll play? Raskolnikov seems quite surprised that he showed up. I can’t wait to see who he is and what he wants.
How’s this for a low-brow conversation starter: How many shots of vodka will it take to put Razumihin under the table? Who will win in a slap-down fight: Dounia or Sonya? If Raskolnikov were alive today, would he be an Ayn Rand fan?
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Crime and Punishment, Part Two
For me, Part Two developed in a structure similar to Part One: Somewhat slow beginning, then a very compelling ending. I am enjoying the writing style and I love to listen to the characters as they ramble on and on. Raskolnikov was starting to annoy me with the fever that composed most of his existence in Part Two, so I'm glad he seems to have shaken it.
His visit to the police station at the beginning of the section worried me at first, but then I realized that if he were busted for the crime, they would have sent officers to escort him: they wouldn’t have simply asked him to report to the station on his own. His behavior at the station was about as composed as it could have been, given that he had killed two people less than 24 hours before.
I was surprised at his visit to Razumihin directly afterward, but I think Dostoevsky was just trying to find a way to introduce the character, to pull him into the story. I must say, I like him better than Raskolnikov. Rodya (Fab) is brooding, self-absorbed and introverted; Razumihin (Berry) is much more outgoing, fun-loving, and gregarious. It’s a wonder they’re friends. The way he treats Nastasya, it’s a wonder she even comes to visit him. She probably has a crush on him or something.
The dream he had about the landlady getting beaten was realistically written: I thought it was really happening. I remember thinking, “Why the heck doesn’t he go help her?” Might have been interesting to have him open the door and find nothing rather than hear about it from Nastasya, but it may just serve – for her – as further verification of his fever.
Anyway, Raskolnikov seems to be exhibiting a great deal of self-destructive behaviors: He’s poor as a dirt farmer, yet he constantly gives away what little money he has (the street singer gets five copecks, Duclida the girl near the tavern gets fifteen and doesn’t even have to do anything, fifty copecks to the waiter for tea and vodka, plus freakin’ twenty roubles to the widow Ivanovna), he gives his doctor Zossimov reasons for suspicion, he almost dares the clerk Zametov to suspect him of the crime when he’s in the tavern, he nearly turns himself in to the cops soon after, AND he almost alienates his friend Razumihin despite his kindness. (Actually, because of it. I think he was just feeling guilty about the crime and didn’t feel he deserved any kindness from anyone.) If not for that old woman who jumped off the bridge (and Marmeladov), he might have ended it all right there.
I’m glad he found a sort of redemption in helping Marmeladov’s widow and family. They really appreciated his help, and the whole situation gave Raskolnikov a purpose to live. He recovered somewhat from his feverishness and seemed happy for once.
He’s going to have some explaining to do to his family, now that they’re here and he has mortally insulted his sister’s fiance. (Now THAT was funny!)
His visit to the police station at the beginning of the section worried me at first, but then I realized that if he were busted for the crime, they would have sent officers to escort him: they wouldn’t have simply asked him to report to the station on his own. His behavior at the station was about as composed as it could have been, given that he had killed two people less than 24 hours before.
I was surprised at his visit to Razumihin directly afterward, but I think Dostoevsky was just trying to find a way to introduce the character, to pull him into the story. I must say, I like him better than Raskolnikov. Rodya (Fab) is brooding, self-absorbed and introverted; Razumihin (Berry) is much more outgoing, fun-loving, and gregarious. It’s a wonder they’re friends. The way he treats Nastasya, it’s a wonder she even comes to visit him. She probably has a crush on him or something.
The dream he had about the landlady getting beaten was realistically written: I thought it was really happening. I remember thinking, “Why the heck doesn’t he go help her?” Might have been interesting to have him open the door and find nothing rather than hear about it from Nastasya, but it may just serve – for her – as further verification of his fever.
Anyway, Raskolnikov seems to be exhibiting a great deal of self-destructive behaviors: He’s poor as a dirt farmer, yet he constantly gives away what little money he has (the street singer gets five copecks, Duclida the girl near the tavern gets fifteen and doesn’t even have to do anything, fifty copecks to the waiter for tea and vodka, plus freakin’ twenty roubles to the widow Ivanovna), he gives his doctor Zossimov reasons for suspicion, he almost dares the clerk Zametov to suspect him of the crime when he’s in the tavern, he nearly turns himself in to the cops soon after, AND he almost alienates his friend Razumihin despite his kindness. (Actually, because of it. I think he was just feeling guilty about the crime and didn’t feel he deserved any kindness from anyone.) If not for that old woman who jumped off the bridge (and Marmeladov), he might have ended it all right there.
I’m glad he found a sort of redemption in helping Marmeladov’s widow and family. They really appreciated his help, and the whole situation gave Raskolnikov a purpose to live. He recovered somewhat from his feverishness and seemed happy for once.
He’s going to have some explaining to do to his family, now that they’re here and he has mortally insulted his sister’s fiance. (Now THAT was funny!)
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Crime and Punishment, Part One
So far, I’m enjoying Crime and Punishment much more than Don Quixote. The novel started slowly: the “experimental” visit to Alyona, the conversation with Marmeladov in the bar, the letter from his mother, and the adventure with the young drunken girl. But when Raskolinikov broke into the apartment in Chapter Seven, everything picked right up.
At first, I didn’t know why Dostoevsky included the conversation with Marmeladov and his prostitute daughter, but I figured there must be a reason for it. I came back to it later. When I was reading the letter from Raskolnikov’s mother, I thought, “Well, here’s the end of the novel. All his money problems are over, and now Alyona’s safe.” His reaction to the suitor surprised me, but then I immediately saw the connection between Sonia and Dounia, a connection which Raskolnikov must have seen even sooner and resented even more than I. Of course, he would oppose the marriage. Who would want their beloved younger sister whoring herself out in a loveless marriage for their benefit? His rantings as he walked down the street, while at first hardly coherent, soon seemed to make sense. His horse-dream, however, did not mean that much to me. I wonder, does it become more integrated into the plot later on? Does it have a symbolic significance to Raskolnikov that I cannot see? He killed the old woman – and her sister – but the old horse doesn’t represent her. The horse is seen as something to be pitied, while Alyona is unpleasant and almost deserving of death, at least according to the student in the bar whom Raskolnikov overheard. Probably something to do with the social order.
I was surprised that Raskolnikov chose to use an axe to kill her, especially one that was stolen. Why make things even more difficult for yourself? It seemed to me that, with such an old woman, he would be better off just strangling her. Forensic evidence being what it was back then, it seems unlikely that his hands would have been matched up to the bruises on her throat, plus there would be no blood. I remember when I killed that old lady, I— Oops. Wait. Forget I said that.
I knew that he would encounter Lizaveta, even if he successfully killed Alyona. Would’ve been too easy otherwise. And I figured he would have to kill her, too. But I never anticipated the two visitors that would come to Alyona’s door. And the young one seemed so suspicious! He seemed to know, or at least guess, exactly what had happened. I figured there would be no way Raskolnikov could get away, but he got lucky. He seemed to get lucky many times as he committed his crime. I was surprised he was able to duck into the empty flat while the other men were investigating, but he seems charmed. The writing style was lively and made me want to jump ahead. Very compelling.
Toward the end of Chapter Six, Raskolnikov considers why so many criminals give themselves away by making mistakes. It seemed to me at the time that he would certainly overlook something and would make some grave mistake himself. You know: foreshadowing. But perhaps, since he seems so passionate and superstitious, he won’t make a mistake but he’ll think he will, and he’ll be so overcome with remorse and guilt that he’ll eventually give himself up even if he could get away with it. Hmm, we’ll see, I guess.
So. He seems to have gotten away with a double-murder. I want simultaneously for him to get busted and to get away with it. It took me a while to get myself on his side. It really wasn’t until the dream – maybe that was its purpose – until I really began to care for him and want him to be successful. It’s funny how we can be both attracted to, and repulsed by, such a vicious criminal. There’s a certain attractiveness we feel to criminals: their reasons for their crimes, their methods, the imbalance in their mental states, and the sheer interest we feel for their crimes. Who among us has no skeletons in their closets? Who among us has not committed even a small crime? We feel a moral superiority to one who commits such a violent crime, and perhaps a little gratitude that it is not we who are trying to avoid punishment for it. Still, as Bender points out in The Breakfast Club, being bad feels pretty good, even vicariously.
My guess is that his mother and sister will come to visit in Part Two and he’ll have to deal with them. One of the reasons he committed the crime – probably – will be so he can have some grounds for refusing to allow Dounia to marry. He was right when he mused earlier: who is he to refuse her marriage? Now at least, he can say that he doesn’t need the money. My prediction for Part Two is that it will end with some kind of encounter with police, a meeting with resultant bad feelings between Raskolnikov and Luzhin, and some amount of resentfulness among Raskolnikov’s family, centering around Raskolnikov’s reaction to Dounia’s marriage.
Knowing Dostoevsky, I am looking forward to a nice descent-into-madness with Raskolnikov. Two thumbs up for Part One.
At first, I didn’t know why Dostoevsky included the conversation with Marmeladov and his prostitute daughter, but I figured there must be a reason for it. I came back to it later. When I was reading the letter from Raskolnikov’s mother, I thought, “Well, here’s the end of the novel. All his money problems are over, and now Alyona’s safe.” His reaction to the suitor surprised me, but then I immediately saw the connection between Sonia and Dounia, a connection which Raskolnikov must have seen even sooner and resented even more than I. Of course, he would oppose the marriage. Who would want their beloved younger sister whoring herself out in a loveless marriage for their benefit? His rantings as he walked down the street, while at first hardly coherent, soon seemed to make sense. His horse-dream, however, did not mean that much to me. I wonder, does it become more integrated into the plot later on? Does it have a symbolic significance to Raskolnikov that I cannot see? He killed the old woman – and her sister – but the old horse doesn’t represent her. The horse is seen as something to be pitied, while Alyona is unpleasant and almost deserving of death, at least according to the student in the bar whom Raskolnikov overheard. Probably something to do with the social order.
I was surprised that Raskolnikov chose to use an axe to kill her, especially one that was stolen. Why make things even more difficult for yourself? It seemed to me that, with such an old woman, he would be better off just strangling her. Forensic evidence being what it was back then, it seems unlikely that his hands would have been matched up to the bruises on her throat, plus there would be no blood. I remember when I killed that old lady, I— Oops. Wait. Forget I said that.
I knew that he would encounter Lizaveta, even if he successfully killed Alyona. Would’ve been too easy otherwise. And I figured he would have to kill her, too. But I never anticipated the two visitors that would come to Alyona’s door. And the young one seemed so suspicious! He seemed to know, or at least guess, exactly what had happened. I figured there would be no way Raskolnikov could get away, but he got lucky. He seemed to get lucky many times as he committed his crime. I was surprised he was able to duck into the empty flat while the other men were investigating, but he seems charmed. The writing style was lively and made me want to jump ahead. Very compelling.
Toward the end of Chapter Six, Raskolnikov considers why so many criminals give themselves away by making mistakes. It seemed to me at the time that he would certainly overlook something and would make some grave mistake himself. You know: foreshadowing. But perhaps, since he seems so passionate and superstitious, he won’t make a mistake but he’ll think he will, and he’ll be so overcome with remorse and guilt that he’ll eventually give himself up even if he could get away with it. Hmm, we’ll see, I guess.
So. He seems to have gotten away with a double-murder. I want simultaneously for him to get busted and to get away with it. It took me a while to get myself on his side. It really wasn’t until the dream – maybe that was its purpose – until I really began to care for him and want him to be successful. It’s funny how we can be both attracted to, and repulsed by, such a vicious criminal. There’s a certain attractiveness we feel to criminals: their reasons for their crimes, their methods, the imbalance in their mental states, and the sheer interest we feel for their crimes. Who among us has no skeletons in their closets? Who among us has not committed even a small crime? We feel a moral superiority to one who commits such a violent crime, and perhaps a little gratitude that it is not we who are trying to avoid punishment for it. Still, as Bender points out in The Breakfast Club, being bad feels pretty good, even vicariously.
My guess is that his mother and sister will come to visit in Part Two and he’ll have to deal with them. One of the reasons he committed the crime – probably – will be so he can have some grounds for refusing to allow Dounia to marry. He was right when he mused earlier: who is he to refuse her marriage? Now at least, he can say that he doesn’t need the money. My prediction for Part Two is that it will end with some kind of encounter with police, a meeting with resultant bad feelings between Raskolnikov and Luzhin, and some amount of resentfulness among Raskolnikov’s family, centering around Raskolnikov’s reaction to Dounia’s marriage.
Knowing Dostoevsky, I am looking forward to a nice descent-into-madness with Raskolnikov. Two thumbs up for Part One.
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